Toasty Wool

The evening chill finally chased me back inside through the screen door. My scales were cold from the garden mulch, but as I padded across the dark floorboards, a draft of dry heat drew me straight to the corner radiator. Slumped right beside the iron pipes was a thick, cable-knit wool sock that had tumbled from a basket. Was it soaking up all that warmth on purpose? I nudged the cuff with my snout, finding the yarn gloriously toasty. Retracting my spine spikes so I could lie flat, I curled my belly right into the soft, heavy folds. Can anything warm cold claws faster than this?